Rest In Peace
by Sythar
Summary: Set between In Memoriam and The Graveyard. A day in the 'lives' of Javert and Valjean. What do they do? What ever happened to everyone else who died in Les Miserables? Why *is* Valjean following Javert anyway? Regards to M. Leblanc for requesting this one
1. The Ghosts

I know, I know. I thought this would be a oneshot! It got away from me. There _will_ be cameos, Grantaire _will_ get to drink absinthe, and Marius and Cosette _will_ get to be sweet.

I don't own Les Miserables. I am merely paying homage to the great Victor Hugo through my meagre works.

xxx

If one had asked the elderly gentleman standing inthe sun what he was thinking of, he would have answered 'life'. This isn't an odd thing for any person to say, especially a man of advancing years with eyes that looked a little too sad. However, when one considers that the elderly gentleman was no longer among the living, one will – perhaps – understand why the author considers his preoccupation with life to be rather obsessive. Or at least, quite unhealthy.

Valjean – which was the name of the elderly gentleman – breathed deeply. At least, he was pretty _sure_ he was breathing deeply. It felt like he was, but he had learned that so many things in the afterlife were not what the appeared. He _also_ thought that his knee was stiff with rheumatism. And that he wanted a glass of warm milk around seven in the evening. None of this could be true. His bad knee no longer existed, and his stomach was slowly turning into the richness of the earth beneath the grass.

Javert – who took a certain wicked pleasure in 'educating' him on the intricacies of being a ghost – assured him that these sensations were 'memories'. As Valjean struggled to rise out of his chair, grunting and grumbling under his breath; Javert would lean against a handy wall, tug on his bottom lip, and lecture Valjean about 'pandering to the body's whimsies'.

So far Valjean had managed to resist pointing out that a man who absently tried to warm himself in front of every fire they came across, often going so close that the flames would flicker _through_ him, wasn't exactly in a position to talk.

Strange, really. Ever since the moment the Inspector had paused and glanced back to invite him along, they had spent much of their time together. It seemed strangely natural, as natural as the crumbling of the gravestones and the slow trickle of mourners that surrounded the cemetery in the daytime. He – he who had spent so much of his _life_ fleeing this man, now found himself following unrestrained. Valjean couldn't help feeling it was the end to a circle. They had never met under auspicious circumstances. Even in M-sur-M, Valjean had been haunted by the insistent probability that _one day_ the sharp eyes would see right through him.

How many time had he picked up pen to write to Paris and ask them to re-locate this thorn in his flesh? But he could nat make such a request without reason, could not demand the re-assignment of an exemplary officer without some cause. Once, just once, after the Fauchelevant affair while in one of his black studies, Valjean had written a long letter in which he had magnified every one of the Inspector's few faults, in which he had twisted their every encounter in a desperate attempt to excuse his fantastical request.

In the morning he had broken the seal and read it over. And then he had burnt it.

Now finally there were no threats, no laws, no barriers. They did not have to play their weary parts in France's mighty stage. No more convict or policemen. They were men together – if one could call ghosts men. And Valjean found that the Inspector was a fascinating conversationalist, prone to odd tangents and sudden bursts of ridiculous hilarity. Javert taught him about being a ghost, and in turn Valjean softened the world of purgatory for the policeman. Strange how even the dead judged by a uniform.

A sensation prickled down Valjean's spine. It was like recognizing a footstep or a scent. Ghosts could recognize – well – auras? He tipped his head back slightly, not quite looking around. "Finished your rounds?" Another old habit. Javert insisted upon patrolling the streets for exactly an hour every day. It was as though he was rationing himself really.

"Eh – I'm done, yes." Valjean could sense that Javert was just behind him. "The afternoon is yours."

"Mine?" Valjean turned at last. The Inspector was seated on a rock just behind him, his hair disarrayed and damp. It was always damp, an uncomfortable reminder of what the 'whimsies of the body' must have been in death. As usual, Valjean got the awkward feeling that something was missing. He peered, and Javert raised an eyebrow.

"Has my nose grown to extraordinary proportions?"

"No, why?" Valjean said, startled.

"You are staring at me in what can only be termed as – eh – morbid fascination. I can only presume that my face has been painted bright pink by some angel with an overactive sense of humour." Javert pushed his hair back from his face and assumed an expression of comically over-done dismay. "Quick, say a prayer. Maybe it'll go away!"

"I was just _wondering_," Valjean said mildly. "Where your hat is. You look – _wrong_ – without it."

Javert stared for a minutes, and then laughed sharply – a bark of a laugh as sudden as it was surprising. "My _dear_ ex-con herakles, I am devastated that my lack of chapeau is distressing you, but there's not much I can do to remedy the matter. I left it on a bridge."

Valjean stuttered for a moment, flustered. He was under no illusions as to which bridge the hat was left on. Nor at what moment of his life the Inspector has decided to bid farewell to the rather battered black-brimmed chapeau which had become almost as much a part of him as his wolf-like smile. In consternation, Valjean cleared his throat. "Would you like to visit Cosette with me?"

"Again?" Javert shrugged. "I doubt the mam'zelle's gottan any bigger since yesterday."

Cosette _was_ technically a madame now, but Valjean found that he was even less able to think of her as one than Javert was able to call her one. So he just shrugged, sighed, and waited for Javert to unfold his long legs and get off the ground. It had become something of a ritual, as essential to their routine as Javert's ridiculously illogical 'patrol'. Javert knew Valjean lived off the love in the Pontmercy house. Valjean knew the Inspector was sustained by the movements of his job.

As entwined as their 'lives' had become, they still had these old addictions, these passions at the core of their beings. It didn't matter that neither could understand the other's need. They made allowances. They had to.


	2. The Lovebirds

_It is the fault of Michelle Mercy and Yamx that I have updated so fast. I also forgot to mention that this story is dedicated to M Leblanc because they voted for it in a PM. Thanks for the encouragement everyone! Cosette and Marius are dedicated to LesMisLoony._

_I don't own Les Miserables. I am but a humble writer paying homage to a work of art._

_xxxx_

Cosette Pontmercy had been gifted with many different names. She could – if she tried hard enough and if Marius had allowed her to drink a glass of wine – sometimes remember all the way back to the time when she had been no more than little Euphrasie with the frills and flounces. She could remember how her mother used to lisp the name – stumbling over the fanciful creation she'd bestowed until it finally became easier to say 'Cosette'. Cosette the Lark, Cosette Fauchelevant, Cosette Le Blanc, Cosette Fabre… she had changed her name as often as her dress.

And finally the last change of all time, Cosette Pontmercy. She still thrilled every time she found herself using 'Pontmercy' as though it were her very own. Pontmercy – it sounded so pretty falling off her tongue. And, if she was feeling fancy, she could have a treat and use 'Madame Le Baron Pontmercy'. Once Marius had heard her say that, and he had smiled in a rather odd way.

Perhaps it wasn't _quite_ proper grammar, but it sounded fine.

She carefully dipped the pen once more and wrote another name on the crisp new page of her journal. She was an _expert_ on names, and she would pick _just_ the right one for their child. Something that wouldn't make her lisp, for one thing. Something that other people would remember.

Cosette, it must be admitted, was a very tiny bit bitter about her name.

A gentle breath of wind brushed at her hair, fanning the brown curls over her cheeks. The window was barely open, but Cosette had become used to the gentle caresses of the wind in the last few weeks. It seemed almost a companion, whispering soft lullabies to her and soothing her when she was sad. And she _had_ been sad.

"Ma Petite?"

Marius poked his head into the room, and smiled. His smile, Cosette decided as she flicked an ink blot at him, was a very nice thing. It burst out of nowhere and hit you before you quite had time to adjust. It was _hard_ to stay angry with him when he was smiling.

Besides, she hadn't ever been very good at holding a grudge. Even when ones husband _didn't_ notice the new dress one was wearing. So long as he was properly repentant – yes, she could see he was. Cosette closed the book and smiled . "Yes?"

"Are you still trying out names?" Marius wiped the ink from his nose good-humouredly.

"Some, yes. Would you like to see?" Dresses were instantly forgotten, and both husband and wife leaned over the book – engrossed in the task of choosing a name for a very special little person.

xxx

"How many variations of the name 'Jean' can they come up with?" Javert asked no one in particular. He was leant against the mantelpiece, idly sifting through his pockets and poking at items that caught his interest. He held a pinch of wood shavings up to the light and stared at them. "These are – _very _old."

Valjean smiled. Javert was never comfortable in the Pontmercy household. The children were so – very much in love. And not averse to showing it. Sweet-talking, snuggling, even the odd degeneration into outright baby talk. He thought it was charming. Javert, however, always turned rather green and made rude retching noises.

This time, he would have to leave _before_ the Inspector decided to destroy something belonging to young Pontmercy.

"Would you rather they were naming him after you?"

"God and his good angels forbid." Javert replaced the wood shavings. "I use _forbid_ because my natural charm will not permit me to swear around women."

Damn. Valjean had rather hoped that this might elicit a revelation on what Javert's name actually _was_. Well – maybe he would find it out yet. His common sense was laying odds of 20-1 against, but optimism springs eternal when you're dead and have nothing better to do.

Cosette was propounding the beauties of the name Jeanette for a girl. She was smiling, which made Valjean's heart jump a little in his chest. She had been so sad, his little one. Far too sad for the passing of an old man who was ready to die. It was good to see her happy again.

Marius leaned forwards and brushed her forehead with a kiss, and she leaned her cheek in against his chest. They looked so natural in the afternoon sunshine that Valjean felt his throat tighten. Envy, old man, is not a pretty thing. Probably a sin. Whoops – there goes a few more years on your sentence.

"Darling –" Marius placed a hand on Cosette's stomach and smiled – rather idiotically, Vajeam had to admit. "Is my little baby in there? Can he hear me?"

"She." Cosette said firmly.

Marius ignored her. "Are you a good boy? Yes you are… and you're going to be big and strong – just like your daddy. And you'll…"

If there was a slight drawback to these visits, Valjean thought philosophically, it was that young couples in the family way tended to get sentimental quickly.

A breeze started up, and Valjean glanced quickly at Javert. The breeze trick has been one of the first things that Javert had taught him, and he was still trying to get proper control of it. Javert had a head-start, and was quite good. However – patient the Inspector might be, but immune to 'shameless sentimentality' he was not. Before a rogue wind could run off with yet _another_ of Marius's hats, Valjean kissed Cosette on the forehead and whispered a goodbye.

Then, before he could panic that he would never see her again, he turned and nodded to Javert. "Shall we?"

Javert raised an eyebrow. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Come along," Valjean walked over to the door, and realized somewhat to his dismay that Marius had closed it upon entering the room. He still wasn't very good at walking through things. After 60-odd years of being used to solid objects being – well – solid, it was hard to get used to the idea that one could just wander into and out of things at a whim.

Javert had nearly laughed himself into a new grave the first time Valjean had tried to follow his example. If he remembered correctly, it had involved building up far too much steam, hitting the wall far too fast, and ending up in a stunned pile on the floor muttering about how he was too old for this.

"It won't bite. And if it does, I promise you that I will see it properly punished." Javert gave him a little shove.

"Five years?" Valjean reached out and concentrated. His hand passed slowly into the wood – a strange feeling of losing himself washed over him. It was as though that part of his body no longer existed in this world – but in the world beyond the door.

"Seven at least. I know a judge who would throw the book at an old woman for eating her own bread."

"Don't talk to me about bread."

Javert gave him a toothy smile. "Oh yes. I forgot. My apologies."

Ha, very ha. Valjean took a breath and eased himself further into the door. "You never forget things like that. You'd remember the number of the first convict you ever saw if you had to."

"Numbers?" Javert looked puzzled. "Why the hell would I want to do that?"

Valjean kept talking. It didn't matter what they were talking _about_, so long as _something_ was keeping his mind off the horrible dislocated feeling that had now spread to his torso. "Are you telling me that you – l'Inspector Himself – don't remember every single detail about your patients? I'm shocked. Horrified even. You've completely destroyed my faith in human nature."

"I _wish_ you wouldn't imbue my title with that kind of sarcastic deification," Javert said testily, giving him a shove. They both popped through the door and into the hallway. "It's infuriating. And besides, I would have _hoped_ that my stellar example would have taught you better by now." He assumed a pose, wagging a long thin finger just under Valjean's nose. "Don't trust human nature. It. Is. Rotten."

"Cynic."

"Optimist."

Valjean shook his head, the last effects of the passage through the door slowly wearing off. "One of these days I'll prove you wrong, my friend."

"That is what I keep telling myself about you."

The front door was open slightly. Valjean sighed in relief and headed towards it. "I think the angels all have bets on me winning."

"But _I_ won't end up with a halo being surrounded by rejoicing cherubim."

If he didn't _know_ God ad a sense of humour… Valjean sighed and shook his head. This argument was one that could take centuries. "Javert?"

"Can you _see_ me with a halo? What is it?"

Valjean turned, and surveyed the other man somberly. "Can you remember _my_ number?"

"Which one?" Javert said. He was wearing an inscrutable expression suddenly, all cool fronts and stormy brow. The sideburns didn't help. Valjean wondered absently is Javert had cultivated his sideburns because they made him look so imposing or if it had been a lucky coincidence.

"The first one."

"No."

"Really?" Valjean was surprised that he actually felt a little hurt. He'd thought that with the inspectors dedication that _his_ number would have stuck.

"Yes." Javert sighed. "My dear Valjean. I thought of you as a criminal, a mayor, a very bad mayor, a very foolish convict, and 'that damned nuisance who is going to get himself killed one of these days'. I will admit the idea of appellating you with a number never crossed my mind."

"Ah." Well, it was better than nothing.

"You will note I was right about the death part."

"Forgive me if I don't congratulate you." Valjean almost managed to suppress a smile. Javert was right with such regularity that it was more dependable than the fickleness of a Paris mob. And he was _smug_ about it, too. He began to head for the door again.

"So," Javert was just behind him. "What was it?"

"What?"

"Your number. You have piqued my curiosity and there is a positive dearth of official files in purgatory." Javert reached around him and swung the door further open.

Valjean didn't particularly like to speak of it. He had never again been able to stand numbers beginning with 24 after Toulon. But he had only himself to blame for bringing up the subject. One of these days he would manage to keep his mouth shut while trying to walk through a door. "Two-four-six…"

He broke off. Javert had gone invisible. And the reason for his sudden disappearance was standing – or rather, hovering – on the doorstep. Fantine.


	3. The Mother

_Author's Note: This chapter has a few dedications. One is to my friends Yamx and Michelle for promising me cookies. The other is to Bramblefox for delighting me with no less than ten reviews today._

_You know - I _thought_ this would actually work as a oneshot! Um - I had intended to have this chapter cover a bit more of the story, but it extended itself and reached a natural cut-off point. 'shrugs'_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables. Victor Hugo is the genius behind the work._

xxx

Valjean tried to keep a straight face. It would never do to let his jaw sag in complete and utter astonishment. Come on, keep that firm jawline – you can do it. This of all the practice you had while you were a mayor. Somehow, he managed to look directly into Fantine's eyes and not once glance towards the spot where Javert had been.

Once more he was struck by the change in her. He had seen her several times since his death, and the shock grew no less. In fact, the first time he had seen her she had been forced to tug his sleeve and say 'M'sieur Madeliene! Do you remember me?' before he had finally realized _who_ she was.

In life – though Valjean did not like to admit it even in the very private recesses of his head – Fantine had been anything but attractive. When she had smiled at him from her sickbed, gaping holes had blinked where her front incisors should have been, gums swollen and streaming with sores. Her face had been thin and slack and puffy from too much cold, too little food, and too much bad liquor – and her hair was a short-cropped mass of straw. Not even Sister Semplice had been able to make it look nice. And she _had_ tried. Valjean had wondered at the Sister's interest in such vanities until one day he had happened to hear Fantine murmuring in an unguarded moment of fever, 'And my hair – will it be pretty, Madame?'

The Fantine who had met him in the streets of Paris, the Fantine standing on Cosette's doorstep was a different creature altogether. She was dressed in an oddly modest white gown – and her hair was silken long, and very gold. When she smiled she showed all her teeth – a perfect row of ivory white that practically stunned upon first sight.

She smiled now, and Valjean blinked. "M'sieur Madeleine!"

He had _tried_ to get her to call him Valjean. Javert always made his life hell when she didn't. It would be 'M'sieur Le Mayor' this and 'M'siuer Madeleine' that for the next few hours. Of course now it was a little easier to understand how Javert had known in the first place. "Good morning, Madame." They both knew she was not a Madame, but he would be damned to the depths of pernicious hell itself before he would call his daughter's mother 'Ma'mselle'.

"Where did he go?" she asked innocently.

"Who?" Brilliant answer, Valjean. Fantastic. A pretty face and your mendacious talents go out the metaphorical window. He twitched slightly. The uncomfortable sensation that someone was standing very close to him – someone with a long reach and a cold, hard grasp – washed over him and he shuddered. The stuff of old, old nightmares.

"M'sieur Inspector, of course." She seemed positive that he was nearby, and was actually peering around intently, as though convinced that he would pop out of the woodwork like some ghoulish sort of genie.

Where _had _he gone? Come to think of it, Valjean had never actually seen them together. What – was Javert avoiding the woman he had hounded just before her death? Conscience pointed out mildly that it wasn't quite proper to feel quite so smug about all this – but only very quietly. With Javert – it was best to take your smugness where you could.

Just as Valjean was tossing up whether to tell the _technical_ truth and claim that he had no idea where the Inspector was – or tell the _practical _truth, which was that he was pretty damn sure that Javert was just behind him – there was a weird kind of flickering. It was as though the gas lamps had guttered on a dark street – except the whole world quavered with the reaction. Valjean felt oddly like a wick, and thought it an exceedingly silly sensation. He was not a picky man, but at the age he was – and dead to boot – one did have _some_ standards.

When he had stopped seeing grey lights smudging over his vision, Javert was standing on the ceiling and looking very severe. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, and his lips were set into something that looked like a grimace. From this angle Valjean couldn't be sure of anything. Javert bowed with admirably grace to Fantine. "Madame. If you wouldn't mind putting me down?"

Perhaps it was the fuzzy lights still playing in his head, but Valjean felt it was the height of idiocy for Javert to blame this whole thing on Fantine. He was about to say so, when the lady in question giggled. There was hardly a better word to describe it. After living with Cosette for many years, Valjean was an expert on feminine laughs. He had heard them all, from the snigger to the chuckle.

"Of course, M. Javert. All you had to do was ask," she said, smiling prettily. Then – to Valjean's secret horror – she snapped her fingers at him. And Javert was no longer upside down.

He waited until he was back on the ground before repeating his bow. "Deeply obliged. Valjean – we must be going."

"Going?" The losing battle with his jawline was lost, Valjean was aware that his jaw was sagging with all the grace of Fauchelevant's old suspenders.

"We are in a hurry."

"We are?"

"We are."

"Are we?" Valjean became conscious of two things. One, he no longer seemed capable of conversation on any level beyond blind repetition. Two, Javert was glaring at him in what appeared to be a mix of desperation and exasperation.

Fantine bustled over to where Javert was standing, and Valjean winced. He half expected her to start a fight of some messy, unpleasant, and horribly humiliating kind. After all – before death her and the inspector's parting had not exactly been on the best of terms. There had been hard words on both sides. All right, mostly on one side. All right, _only_ on one side.

Seeing as he was likely to be needed as a mediator, Valjean got to work on trying to make his jaw begin to work again. The pity of the matter was that he had made significant progress when Fantine pouted prettily and shot all his hard work to pieces.

She pouted, in fact, with the ease of someone who has had rather a lot of practice, and then began plucking at Javert's coat rather like a small bantam cleaning up the feathers of the rooster. "You men. Always busy and running about and where does it get you? It'll get you into a second grave is what it'll get you to."

"Madame…"

Javert, Valjean noticed dazedly, looked uncomfortable. No. No, that was not true. Compared to how Javert looked right now, Prometheus would have been completely at his ease with his eagle.

"Now, now." Fantine patted him in a decidedly motherly way. "I know how you _are_, M. Javert. You don't eat enough to feed a cat. And you don't sleep well either. Haven't I just seen you standing around on the street corners in the rain and cold? As though _I_ don't know what bad that does to a person!" She straightened the collar of Javert's shirt, and he flinched. "Stop fussing."

"_Madame_." Javert's voice would have frozen the sun itself. Fantine just shrugged it off and turned her attention on Valjean.

"You will make sure he _eats_ something, won't you, M. Madeliene?"

Valjean nodded.

"And keeps out of the chills?"

Valjean nodded. Javert groaned.

"And…"

Finally his voice returned to him. It had been out wandering hand in hand with his sanity. One day, Valjean thought hopefully, he would track them both down at one and the same time. "Madame, we really must be going. I believe Cosette is talking about baby names upstairs…"

Fantine's eyes lit up, and she smiled the dazzling smile again. "Of course. Au'voir!" One last little tweak at Javert's shirt – and Valjean thought he heard her mutter something about… 'layers' before Javert pulled away with the barest modicum of politeness, grabbed hold of his arm, and all but _dragged_ him away. Valjean glanced back over his shoulder. Fantine was still standing outside the house and watching them go. Her hair was fluttering in the breeze, and she was smiling.

As he met her eyes – if he hadn't known better – he would have sworn that she winked.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Revolutionaries


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